A Tale of Two Umbrellas
by MaddHatta21
Summary: Mycroft Holmes is a man of habit. He follows a routine. In a matter of moments his world is turned upside down, and it's all because of a missing umbrella...
1. Something Missing

Mycroft Holmes is a man of habit.

For example, every morning on his way out the door he makes sure to grab his long black umbrella.

Every morning at precisely 6 a.m. he steps out onto the side walk, adjusts his jacket and enters a black limo, umbrella at his side.

Every morning at precisely 8:30 a.m. Mycroft Holmes enjoys a nice cup of tea and has a pastry from the bakery round the corner. The ever trusty umbrella rests against his desk preparing him for unexpected weather.

Every afternoon, at precisely 3:00 Mycroft takes his umbrella and walks down the street to a little cafe, where he waits patiently (in the rain most of the time).

Now, every afternoon between three o'clock and four a young woman with an outrageously colored umbrella (bright neon green with yellow polka dots to be precise) makes her way recklessly across the street from her London flat to a little cafe on the corner.

Only half the time, she forgets her umbrella, and her shoes are mismatched.

A vast majority of the time her hair is frizzy and her jacket is wrinkled.

It is there, outside that little cafe, that the two umbrellas meet, every day, without fail.

It is there, on the dreary London sidewalk, that their owners meet to have a light snack before returning to their daily duties.

And every day, between the hours of three and four in the afternoon, Mycroft Holmes smiles a rare smile.

He offers the girl his arm, and she takes it without hesitation.

This happens everyday.

Everyday except for, of course, today.


	2. Chapter 1: Another Umbrella

Chapter One: Another Umbrella

As far as dreary London days went, this one was by far the dreariest in quite some time.

Weather forecasts predicted a continuous onslaught of terrible weather for the rest of the week.

The death of Sherlock Holmes, was no longer plastered all over the front pages of the local papers.

In the place where his youngest brother's picture ought to be, there was the trivial news of some festival or other in China town.

Mycroft was not entirely sure if he should be disgusted or relieved at the change.

He opted, instead, to feel nothing; or at least appear to feel nothing.

He tossed his morning paper to the side, leaning slightly backwards in his office chair and placing his head in his hand.

His mother had called the night before, with nothing more for him than contempt and scathing words.

"A pity," she had sneered, "All that power and you couldn't even protect your brother. I suppose I should have known from the beginning that you couldn't manage a single thing I asked of you."

Mycroft was used to his mother's harsh words, he had grown up with nothing but contempt from her.

If he was being completely honest, the only real reason her words bothered him now, was because they rang with some semblance of truth.

Mycroft had been the key to Moriarty's plan all along.

He had given the man all that he needed to completely crush Sherlock Holmes.

Yes, Jim Moriarty killed Sherlock Holmes, but Mycroft had been the cause of Sherlock's death.

Mycroft Holmes let his eyes slide to the left where a small clock rested on the edge of his desk.

5:00 a.m.

He had an hour to pull himself together.

An hour to pretend that his brother's demise meant nothing.

An hour to get on with his life.

He would need a walk to clear his mind, he decided, though he did not particularly care for the exercise involved.

* * *

He was two blocks away from his flat before he realized he had forgotten his umbrella.

Mycroft Holmes never went anywhere without his umbrella.

He was just considering returning to his flat to retrieve it, when suddenly the rain stopped.

Mycroft looked up, his eyes no longer focused on his loafers, but instead focused on a hideously polka dotted umbrella.

He immediately attributed that audaciously bright THING with the fact that he was no longer getting wet.

He automatically considered stepping away from the shelter of such a hideous umbrella.

"Hey mister, you'll get sick if you stand in the rain."

Mycroft, stopped.

Had the girl deduced his train of thought?

His eyes fell on her, bright brown eyes flickered back.

Her dark hair was matted to her neck and face, no doubt a result of a young woman not following her own advice.

She wore a raincoat at least.

An atrociously bright one, though not as noticeable as her umbrella.

On her feet were a gaudy pair of black rubber boots.

She popped her gum at him, as if she was awaiting some sort of reaction.

_American._

Mycroft deduced.

He took in the wrinkles in her t-shirt, and the fact that she was wearing a pair of sweat pants, the dark circles under her eyes, the overly cheery grin on her face, and the animal hairs on her pant leg.

_Out for a walk in sleepwear._

_Insomnia._

_Cares little for appearances._

_Enjoys painfully bright colors._

_Possible result of terrible home life._

_Currently lives alone._

_Correction, lives with cat._

_Most likely conclusion: Ran away from home._

The pedestrian light changed to green, and yet, neither person moved.

"Do you usually give advice to people, that you do not intend to follow yourself?"

The girl, at first, appeared startled.

A slow grin slid back across her face, "Do you usually go wandering around at five a.m. in the pouring rain without an umbrella?" she responded cheekily.

Mycroft found himself resisting the urge to smirk at her.

"Actually, I never go anywhere without my umbrella."

The urge died, giving way to his previous dark thoughts.

Though his expression had not changed on the outside, the girl seemed to pick up on a sudden change in his demeanor.

She bit her bottom lip nervously, and stared ahead at the now red pedestrian light.

"Funny, I always FORGET mine."


End file.
